


Between the Fire and the Ashes

by Rayduuu



Series: Amarië Lavellan [5]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Gore, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-21
Updated: 2015-07-21
Packaged: 2018-04-10 11:06:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4389401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rayduuu/pseuds/Rayduuu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A week has passed since the destruction of Haven and what remains of the Inquisition struggles to survive as they make their way through the Frostbacks, led by a broken yet determined Amarië. As the nights grow colder and the dead pile around her, Amarië finds refuge in the words and arms of Solas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Between the Fire and the Ashes

“Thank you,” the frail mass of matted hair, sunken eyes, and soiled bandages sobbed into Amarië’s chest. “Thank you, Herald. You have blessed us. You have blessed me. Thank the Maker for sending you to us.” Amarië held the woman, making soft noises of comfort. She had no words to offer- she knew nothing of the Chant of Light or even how to properly praise the Maker, and the only words this shemlen would want to hear would be those of her god. The dying cared for little other than their gods, and Amarië was the closest thing to the Maker in this woman’s eyes. She clung tightly to Amarië until sleep took her. The mage who had been tending her sat back, exhausted.

The large, rough canvas tent around them was filled with men and women, some who were moaning in pain or fever, but most who were simply prone and unconscious, wrapped up against the cold. These were those who had been most gravely injured but had not yet had the good fortune to die. The healers in the tent had seemingly been startled, or frightened, into silence when Amarië stepped through the flap, but made no complaint when she began to help them, changing bandages and offering comfort to the wounded.  Amarië gently lay her wounded soldier down on the bedroll and reached for the mage. He was a young man with wide, brown, tired eyes and a face taught with exertion. He looked as if he had no idea how he had ended up on the frozen slope of a mountain, healing wounds and struggling to stay alive when he wanted nothing more than to return to the warmth and security of his circle tower. “You should get some sleep as well,” she told him, resting a hand on his arm. “I can set her bandages. You will need your strength for the morning.”

The mage hesitated, then nodded and left with a quiet “thank you”. After their escape it had not taken long for Cullen to gather the soldiers who were still strong, directing them to assist the wounded and weak while Fiona roused the rebel mages into order and purpose, directing them to heal wounds and provide warmth. Together, the soldiers and mages worked to keep the hundreds of survivors alive in the mountains. Meanwhile, Leliana and her scouts assisted Amarië and Solas as they navigated ever northward through the Frostbacks, keeping them on the right and most navigable path. Yet, despite their best efforts, the trek north had been excruciatingly slow. The hundreds of men and women who had once been a part of the blossoming Inquisition were now a broken mass of refugees hindered by the wounded, by a lack of cohesion, and by sheer numbers.

The soldier whom Amarië attended had taken a nasty blow to the neck and shoulder by one of the red lyrium-infected Templars that had swarmed throughout Haven on Corypheus’ arrival. The deep, open gash had not only resisted healing magic but had begun to fester. A wound which would have been painful, yet not fatal, had reduced this once-strong warrior to a husk who could no longer support her own weight. The tent was filled with such wounded. Not every wound succumbed in this manner, but those that did had little chance to recover in this veritable wasteland. Adan, leading those few mages who were skilled in herb lore and potion making, had no luck in coming up with a cure and found nothing for their potions other than the occasional Elfroot sprouting from the ice and rocks along their path.

She finished wrapping the woman’s wounds and stood, checking on the others in the tent and murmuring encouragement to the few mages who continued their work, before stepping out into the biting cold of the mountain air and brilliant orange of the setting sun. The vast camp was alive, but subdued. Tightly-huddled groups of soldiers, chantry sisters, suppliers, craftsmen, and those whose original purpose in the Inquisition Amarië could not even guess at spread over the vast expanse of the slope. Mages moved among them, setting and maintaining fires to sustain them for the coming night. The less wounded lay everywhere, simply enduring. Amarië drifted among them, masking her own limp and exhaustion. A few words, a touch, her very presence seemed to give these people strength. Perhaps it would be enough to see them through the night.

This night was going to be cold. The sun had only just drifted below the icy mountaintops to the west but Amarië could already feel the chill seeping through her armor. This would be the coldest night they had experienced in the week since Haven was buried under rock and snow, and many people would not awaken with the dawn. There was no way around it. The injured had been dying in droves. The path behind them was littered with the dead in varying states of burial and unsuccessful cremation, as the ground was too hard and the fires too cold. There was a goal, a destination, but the concept of “weeks” meant nothing to people who could not see to the next morning.

Amarië slipped back up the slope with the falling darkness, her own injuries screaming like banshees under the heavy, punishing armor. One week had not been enough to heal her injuries, and the demands of leading this endless mass of life through the unforgiving Frostbacks did nothing to speed the process. She could do nothing but stay at the head of the pack, placing one foot in front of the other, projecting a hope that she did not feel. They were largely defenseless on the face of the mountain and Amarië’s wounded shoulder would not even support a shield, yet each morning she donned her armor and strapped a sword to her belt. The sight of her in battle dress gave the people the fortitude they needed to keep moving, even if it was an empty promise.

 _She_  was their empty promise. A symbol and beacon to give them purpose and life, but no more. She could not be a person, blind and hurt and uncertain. She could not be Amarië, an elf far from her clan, she had to be their Herald. The Herald of Andraste, a prophet to a Maker she did not believe in and martyr for a religion she did not care for. So be it. If this is what they needed, she would be their Herald. She had to be what they lost- a name and a purpose. They were soldiers of the Inquisition, and now they were simply broken individuals struggling to survive on a mountain. Their very identity lay within her, now.

It was an endlessly heavy burden, but she could carry them, and so she must, and so she would, until they no longer needed her. And then…  _Hopefully I’ll be long gone before they burn me like they did Andraste_. She bit back the bitter thought. One foot in front of the other.

The head of the camp was nestled under the cliff of a small ridge, a natural protection from the icy winds blowing down the mountain face. A large fire lit the circle of tents and faces there. She could see Cassandra, Cullen, Leliana and Josephine clustered around a makeshift table, anger and frustration in their faces and gestures. They were as angry as she was at their poor progress and high casualties, and Amarië had no desire to discuss the same topics they had beaten to death each night for the past week. Their plans for the morning were the same as they had been for days- continue north to, if Solas was correct, the ancient fortress of Tarasyl’an Te’las.

Amarië continued up the ridge, away from the pointless deliberations around maps and messages. Campfires blinked on one by one like fireflies in the now-blue dusk on the slope below her, the ridge she now stood on allowing her a view of the whole, sprawling camp. Amarië took a ragged breath, the sweet, musky smoke just reaching and filling her lungs, even as her ribs rejected the movement. The figures moving about the camp were becoming shadows in the twilight, but one caught her attention as it climbed the path that would take him to her ridge, his elven eyes shining in the dying light as they met hers. She hadn’t even realized she had been waiting for him until that moment. Solas had become something of a refuge since they stumbled from the ruins of Haven. He had given her a foundation of purpose and sanity among the ocean of uncertainty and absurdity as men and elves and dwarves fell to their knees around her. He then gave her guidance as they traveled, then companionship, and finally, in recent days, comfort.

“Lethallan.” Solas inclined his head toward her as he joined her at the edge of the ridge.

“It’s going to be cold tonight,” she said quietly. “We have mages to keep fires going but…” She shook her head. “It isn’t going to be enough.”

“No,” he agreed grimly. “There are too many injured, and those injuries too grave. Amarië.”

She turned her face to him. He was frowning at her. “What?”

“We are doing everything we can.”

“I know that.”

“You can’t save them all.”

“I know that!” She snapped, her eyes suddenly burning, her fist tightening on the pommel of her sword. “Knowing that doesn’t make it easier watching everyone _die_.”

“Certainly not,” he said, his voice hushed. “You have a responsibility to them, there is no question, however…” He took her arm, pulling her gently so that she faced him, studying her. “You are not alone in that responsibility and we are  _all_ doing what must be done. You are in pain.”

It wasn’t a question. She sighed. “I’m tired.”

He nodded. “Pushing your body and mind until they break will help no one, Amarië. Come, let me look at your wounds.”

She followed him away from the edge of the ridge, away from the attention of the masses on the slope below. There was little to burn here so the fire he cast for warmth and light was sustained only by the Fade. She turned away from him, loosening the buckles on her arms and chest as Solas’ strong, slender fingers worked at those on her back and shoulders. Together they undid every strap and, one by one, the pieces of her armor fell away. She stood there in simple leathers and wool, feeling free of at least one burden.

Without a word they lowered themselves to the ground. Solas settled behind Amarië, his hands sliding over her back to find the wounds at her shoulder. The skin was intact, yet her encounter with Corypheus left the muscles and ligaments shredded and the shoulder dislocated. Though the fall into the tunnels below Haven had miraculously popped the bone back into the joint, the damage to the muscles went deep. Despite Solas’ continued efforts, they were not healing quickly. She felt the now-familiar tingling warmth as he pressed healing magic into her and she gritted her teeth against the pain. Though she was undoubtedly being healed, the re-stitching of muscle fibers felt like fire and beetles skittering just under her skin, burrowing into her back and shoulder.

“Have you been taking the regeneration potion?”

“From Adan?” She asked, her voice strained with pain. “Yes, daily. It has helped but it works best on surface wounds. The frostbite is healed but nothing else.”

“As expected,” he said, his hands moving gently over her skin, his magic dancing and burning into every tear beneath the surface. “I believe the lack of adequate rest is undoing a significant portion of the healing that your muscles undergo. It is unfortunate that we cannot halt progress for a few days.”

“Absolutely not,” Amarië said tersely. “The longer we linger here, exposed and freezing, the more people we lose.”

“I do not disagree. As well, we are vulnerable to attack. You should, at the very least, not strain your injuries with your armor. The same goes for the broken ribs. They will not heal under that constant pressure and the armor, at this point, is unnecessary.”

“Is it? Even Cassandra- brilliant, headstrong Cassandra- would hesitate if she saw me at any less than my best. I’m carrying all of them, Solas.”

“Yes,” he said softly. He moved his hands down to her ribs, his magic knitting itself around the cracks in the bone. Amarië leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees and letting her head hang. This, at least, was relatively painless, but the exhaustion of the long day was making her limbs heavy. “As I said, it is unfortunate. It is not a burden you should shoulder alone.”

She was quiet for a few moments before lifting her head. “There was this woman today, a soldier. She will very likely die tonight, but she clung to me, sobbing and thanking me.  _Thanking_ me for nothing but my existence. I can’t heal her, I can’t save her, and she will die because Corypheus was after  _me_.” Her fists tightened, the words catching in her chest as she spoke. “I have no validation for her, yet she believes that I was divinely sent. She thinks that by simply touching me that she will be saved. Solas, I’m not the savior of these people. They see me as this… this Herald of Andraste. I can’t be that. I’m NOT that. I’m just…” She shook her head, searching for the words. “Mortal. Fallible. What they believe is false and I am a pretender. And for what? For an organization that is fueled by a religion that I do not follow? For a deity that I do not worship?”

“At the moment the Inquisition is not the Chantry. Though it was founded under the name of their Maker, it is a force with a worldly purpose that is independent of faith.” Solas pulled his hands away and she twisted to look at him. His gaze was steady, grounding. “Do you doubt the purpose of the Inquisition?”

“No.” Her voice shook with conviction and emotion. “Not since Redcliffe. In the beginning I stayed because I was the only one who could seal the rifts. I knew the breach had to be closed to bring stability back to the people and I seemed to be the key. Then, when… when Dorian and I were sent forward… I saw what the future would be like if Corypheus was unopposed. I would not let that happen. No one could be more committed to stopping him than Dorian or I, because we saw the consequences firsthand. No one could see that and be complacent.”

Solas nodded firmly. “And that is why you are the best hope for these people. Turn. Let me finish.” She allowed him to return his hands and his focus to her broken body. “You have been thrust into a position of leadership and influence, and you have excelled. Your persistence and nature has forged the way for the unthinkable- Even before your total commitment you solved the conflict with the rogue Templars and mages, among other incredible achievements. You have led by example and shown strength and logic rather than empty idealism. These people draw their purpose not from your supposed divine touch, but from the optimism and strength you have shown. You need only be yourself, because you are already, inherently, what these people and this Inquisition needs. You are their Herald.”

“I will do what needs to be done. I just don’t want the people who look to me to be deceived, to believe more of me than I can offer them.”

“You have the backing of the entire Inquisition. You can offer much more than you may believe. They are weak now, but their strength and fervor will return with a vengeance that you will only just be able to contain.  _That_  is where you must be cautious. As I said, faith tends to make martyrs of its champions. I have done all I can for tonight. Here.” His hands trailed up her spine, resting back at her shoulder. A delightfully cool sensation swept through her fevered skin, chasing away the beetles and the fire. The relief was instantaneous and she moaned, shivering under his fingertips. He chuckled, the fingers of his left hand splaying across the back of her shoulder blade, pressing his palm to the skin and sending the sweet chill throughout the entirety of her torso. It seemed to fill the very hole of despair that had anchored itself in her chest over the past week and she closed her eyes, leaning into those strong, comforting hands.

“Oh, creators,” she breathed. “’Ma serranas.”

She did not see the smile that tugged at his mouth but she heard the softness in his voice. “Sathem lasa helani, lethallan. Lean back, if you will.”

As she did his hands slipped down and around her ribs, trailing the soothing chill with them. She leaned back against his chest, his palms coming to rest on her front ribs, granting relief from the pain, the tension, the terrible anxiety. She relaxed in his arms, exhaustion finally winning as Solas’ words and magic lifted the weight from her mind and chest. “Thank you, lethallin. For everything.” She murmured.

She slipped into sleep, her head on his shoulder, her brow for once unfurrowed. Solas ceased his magic but did not move as she slept. “Ara melava son’ganem,” he said softly. His breathing slowed, matching her own, the light from the fire flickering over his features. Though his eyes were troubled, his arms were firm as they held her. “Son era, Amarië.”

**Author's Note:**

> Translations:
> 
>  _‘ma serranas_ \- thank you  
>  _Sathem lasa helani_ \- pleased to help  
>  _Ara melava son’ganem_ \- My time is well spent. Used with family, close friends, or lovers.  
>  _Son era_ \- Sleep well.
> 
> Translations from [Project Elvhen, a fan-created expansion of Elvish](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3553883/chapters/7825850)


End file.
